


It's Life That Just Sharpens The Blade

by elrhiarhodan



Series: The Wonder(ful) Years Verse [19]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Case Fic, Coming Out, Domesticity, Homophobia, M/M, wonder(ful) years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after Neal’s graduation from Quantico (the story told in <a href="http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/280850.html">For the Ends of Being and Ideal Grace</a>). Neal’s first days on the job at the White Collar division in New York are difficult.  Life at home isn’t easy either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Life That Just Sharpens The Blade

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork by Kanarek13

“You know that we’re going to have to be very careful at work.” Neal was sitting on the bed, wrapped in one of the hotel’s fluffy terry cloth robes and looking more like jailbait than a newly minted FBI agent. 

Peter shoved the last of his clothes into his suitcase and zipped it shut. “I’m not sure that pretending we aren’t close friends is really the best approach. Hughes already knows and he doesn’t have a problem with it.”

“It’s not Agent Hughes I’m worried about – it’s how that friendship is going to affect our careers. Don’t you think it’ll be kind of weird to have everyone know that your best friend is working in the same office?”

Peter had to smile, the idea was still so unexpected, but he could see the pitfalls – particularly for Neal. “You want to stand on your own.”

“Yeah.” Neal got up and started to dress. He had packed while Peter had showered.

Peter leered at his ass and wondered if they had time for a quickie before checking out. 

Neal must have read his mind. “You are such a goat, Peter Burke.”

He laughed. “Poor baby, you too sore?” They had gone through nearly all of the condoms and lube in the last thirty-six hours.

“No, well, yes – but we don’t have time.” Neal shoved his hands in his pockets, looked around the rooms, and gave him a panicked look. “My cufflinks – do you know what happened to them?”

Peter unzipped his luggage and took out his suit jacket. He dug them and Neal’s tie bar from his pocket. “Here, I took them off when we first got to the room, when I …”

“When you seduced me with poetry.”

Peter blushed; he still couldn’t believe that of himself. _For the ends of Being and ideal Grace…_

Neal kissed him on the lips, a gentle and loving caress. “I will never, ever forget that. It was the most perfect thing.”

“Hmm, well …” Peter all but scuffed his feet on the carpet, proud and still embarrassed. “Can’t believe you’re wearing a suit – it’s Sunday.” He had to change the subject.

Neal put on the cufflinks and affixed his tie bar. “After five months of living in badly fitted khakis and Academy sweatshirts, I may never wear anything else.” He checked himself out in the mirror and frowned.

“What’s the matter?”

Neal tugged at his jacket, trying to smooth and straighten the fabric. “Going to have to get to my tailor – this doesn’t fit quite right. It’s snug across the shoulders and a little loose at the waist.”

Peter stood behind him, letting his hands run over the parts in question. “Not surprising, really. You’ve filled out, toned up. Looks good.” He kissed Neal just below his earlobe. “Mmmm.”

Neal stepped out of his arms. “We don’t have time for that now.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Love how you’ve become Mr. Responsibility.”

“I’m an FBI agent now.” Neal actually flashed his badge. “I’ll have you arrested if you make us miss our train.”

“Oooh, I’m so scared. Please don’t hurt me.” Peter held up his hands in mock surrender. 

Neal smirked. “Just you wait until we get home, I’ll teach you about being scared.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Well, you’re going to have to.” Neal picked up his duffle bag. 

Peter did the same and kept his eyes glued to Neal’s ass as he walked out the door. He hadn’t thought it was possible, but that ass was even better looking now. 

_Yeah, he was such a goat._

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

They made it to Union Station with plenty of time to spare. The train was mostly empty and they took seats facing each other. Neal wanted to spend the time looking at Peter’s face. He had missed it so damn much, and having a few hours to just gaze at it without interference was pure pleasure.

“Looking forward to getting home?”

Peter’s question burst his warm bubble of contentment. “I’m looking forward to being together again, sharing a bed with you, if that’s what you’re asking.” But he knew that wasn’t really the question.

“Ah.”

“Ah, yes.” Neal echoed. “Home, a third floor walk-up where the walls are as thin as tissue, the toilet keeps backing up, and the vermin that are impossible to keep out. Then there’s the added bonus of the neighbors who look at us like we’re worse than the vermin.” He couldn’t stop himself. “Home for us could be a four-bedroom, four-bathroom duplex apartment in a prewar building on the Upper West Side, overlooking the park. One that has all the amenities a man could want: a modern kitchen, beautiful and updated bathrooms, a paneled library, stone fireplaces in the bedrooms, all of the original woodwork, plus a courteous doorman who’ll deliver the New York Times to our door every morning. The neighbors won’t care about us, or even better, they’ll be like us.”

“Neal – ”

He hadn’t intended on pressing the issue now, but delaying wouldn’t make things any better. “Peter, we have to talk about this.”

Peter’s face got that closed off look, so typical when he was annoyed. “You know the reasons why I don’t want to move.”

“And I don’t agree with them.” Neal sighed, they were going to go around and around again, just like they did before he left for Quantico.

_“I hate this place.” Neal looked around the shabby one-bedroom apartment._

_“It’s not that bad, and it’s close to public transportation,” Peter defended._

_A jet passed overhead; the roar of the engines was loud enough to set the glassware rattling. “Close to the airport, too, for that matter.”_

_“You really want to move into one of Adler’s properties?”_

_Enough time had passed that Neal no longer got that visceral, sickening reaction at the mention of his late and despised stepfather’s name. “I don’t get it – you were the one who initially pushed me to accept what Adler left me. And it’s not like the SOB ever lived there. It was an investment, one of many.” The Adler REIT owned over three dozen luxury apartments in Manhattan, and generated a significant amount of income for Neal. Not that he ever touched it. But money begat money - that was the way of the world. “Besides, wouldn't it be nice to live somewhere where you don’t have to worry about the neighbors hearing every move you make? Every time we have sex?”_

_Peter didn’t answer right away. “I don’t like the idea of living in a place I can’t afford.”_

_“What do you mean? There’s no mortgage to pay, just the monthly maintenance and the taxes. They won’t be much more than what we’re paying for this place.”_

_“You know what I mean.”_

_Neal got annoyed. “Actually, Peter, I don’t.”_

_“If you hadn’t inherited the property, we’d have to pay rent or take out a mortgage. I couldn’t afford my share.”_

_A sharp, stabbing pain erupted just over Neal’s right eye. He got it every damn time they had a conversation about money. “This isn’t like me wanting to buy you a decent car. This is us – where we live, our home. Our safe haven. This is our future. Is it so bad to want someplace nice? Someplace where we can shut out the world and be ourselves?”_

_“No, of course not.” But Neal could see that Peter wasn’t agreeing to move._

_“I’ve lived here, with you, for almost three years. I don’t regret a moment of that time, but I feel like – like it’s an extension of our college life. Like I’m still waiting for something to begin.”_

_“Well, you are, aren’t you? You’ve been waiting to join the FBI since eleventh grade. Everything else has been just another step along the way to that goal.”_

_“And when I come back to New York, I want to be able to live a real life, in a real home.” Neal winced, he didn’t mean that the way it sounded._

_“Do we have to do this now?”_

_“No, we don’t.” Neal dropped the subject, in deference to the hurt he could hear in Peter’s voice._

The conversation was delayed and before Neal realized it, he had left for Quantico and nothing was settled. Now, it was more than five months later and they still hadn’t come to an agreement.

“Peter, what are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You didn’t have this problem when I bought the house in Cambridge.”

“That was different. Besides, I paid the market rate for the rent into the mortgage. I could afford that.”

“And when I sold the place, I gave that money back to you.” The property had been snatched up by a developer who bought it for twice the original purchase price. Peter hadn’t been happy, but he hadn’t been as stubborn either. The money went a long way to paying off the student loans his parents had taken out to cover what his scholarship didn’t.

The day that started off so promising had turned gray and rainy. Much like his mood. Peter opened the Sunday Times magazine section and started doing the crossword, deliberately ignoring Neal.

“Avoiding this isn’t going to solve anything.”

Peter looked up. “I don’t want to move into Manhattan. I can’t afford it.”

_And what I want doesn’t count?_ Instead of talking about his feelings, he threw oil on the fire. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“What’s so ridiculous about not wanting to live outside my means? The amount of work I do equals certain things in the real world. Which doesn’t include a four-bedroom duplex in a neighborhood where I can barely afford the price of a cup of coffee.”

“But it’s not …”

Peter held up a hand, cutting him off. “It is.”

Neal sat back, infinitely hurt but determined not to let it show. “All right. You’re more important to me than anything.”

Peter didn’t gloat; he just reached out and squeezed his hand. “Thanks – thank you for understanding.”

The train swayed against a curve and Peter let go, choosing to focus on his crossword puzzle, apparently content that the matter was closed.

Neal thought it would be so much easier if they could be married. Peter would be entitled to half of everything. But they were two guys and that was never going to happen.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Hello, gorgeous!” Amy Grainger, who occupied the desk opposite Peter’s, actually licked her lips. “Mmmm, I’d like to have some of that.”

Peter followed her line of sight, and yes, there was an absolutely gorgeous man standing there. Tall and lean, with a bright gold shield clipped on his belt, Neal was wearing a suit that cost more than Peter’s take-home salary for a month. Even from this distance, it was possible to tell that even his haircut cost more than Peter probably spent at the barber in a year. 

He looked back at his file. Pretending he didn’t recognize Neal was a lot harder than he thought it would be.

“Wonder who he is. A little young, though.” That didn’t seem to stop Amy from staring at the guy like she wanted to strip him naked and do him in public. Peter knew just how she felt.

Jack Franklin, who always seemed to have his fingers on the pulse of the entire office, enlightened Amy. “It’s the new probie, so hands off. At least for the first week.”

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“Neal Caffrey. Fresh out of Quantico. And by fresh, I mean that he just graduated last Friday.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen a probie look so – hmm – well put together?” She still didn’t take her eyes off Neal.

Peter gritted his teeth and tried to tune her out. He wasn’t jealous – he had no reason to be – but he didn’t like her talking about Neal like he was a piece of meat.

“He’s apparently major hot shit,” Jack commented. “Harvard undergrad and law school; did three years at Drake Morrissey in their white collar defense unit. A real up-and-comer, he even second-chaired on some pretty big cases. I heard he was slated for partner at least two years earlier than usual.” Franklin shook his head.

“And he left, what – a six-figure salary – to become an FBI agent?” Amy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. She might be a man-eater, but she wasn’t stupid. “That doesn’t seem right.”

Franklin shrugged. “That’s what’s in his personnel file, and I know some guys who worked with him at Drake Morrissey. He was also top of his class at Quantico.” He turned to Peter with a smirk. “Beat your academic records. Looks like the White Collar division has a new golden boy.”

While it bothered him that Franklin had access to both his and Neal’s personnel files, Peter really didn’t care about his implications. He didn’t care about Grainger’s overactive sexuality. What he did care about was that Neal was here and that there was going to be a lot of scrutiny on him.

Hughes came down from his office to greet Neal, something that got raised eyebrows from all three agents. Hughes was their SAIC, and SAICs don’t get up and go greet the new probationary agents.

Peter again turned back to the file he was reviewing. They were still gathering evidence, still trying to put all the pieces together on this insider trading case. It was so much bigger than they first thought, with players all over the world. But it was slow going, the latest batch of documents they received was in Japanese, and Peter was waiting on the translations.

He managed to block out Jack and Amy’s chatter; they were still going on about the new probie. _About Neal._ Even though he was focused on the casework, he knew just the moment when Hughes brought Neal over to them.

“Burke, Grainger, Franklin – this is Neal Caffrey, he’s joining the unit.”

Peter finally looked up. Neal was wearing his “charmed and pleased” grin. The one that Peter knew was meaningless, as he held out his hand to both agents. Franklin didn’t quite give Neal the brush-off, since Hughes was standing there. And for the same reason, Amy dialed down her man-eater routine.

“I believe you know Agent Burke.” 

Peter had been afraid of this, and there was nothing he could do about it now. But Neal played it cool.

“Good to see you, Peter.” Neal held out his hand to Peter, as if they hadn’t just spent the weekend in a hotel room in DC indulging in passionate reunion sex and then argued about their living accommodations on the train ride home. Peter shook it.

“Same here.”

Jack restated the obvious. “You two know each other?”

Neal answered, completely at ease, “We were at Harvard together, lived in the same house when I was in law school. What was it, about four years ago?”

Peter nodded in agreement, hoping he was as equally cool.

Grainger glared at Peter before turning to Neal. “We were just talking about you – and Peter here didn’t see fit to mention that.”

“Talking about me?” Neal shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. The look of surprise on his face as only partially feigned. 

Amy must have realized she’d stepped in it, and tried to shift the blame. “Yes – Jack here seems to know all about you. He was eager to share.”

“Franklin?” Hughes’ tone was quiet, and Peter suddenly felt sorry for his colleague.

“Umm, yeah – I have a friend at Caffrey’s old firm. He may have mentioned that one of their rising stars had left to join the FBI and would probably end up here.” Jack’s smile was sickly and he didn’t convince anyone of anything.

Peter was half hoping Neal would eviscerate Franklin, but he didn’t, letting Hughes pull him over to another group of agents.

Jack drifted off, back to his own desk. Amy gave Peter a narrow-eyed stare, one that promised much pain if he didn’t give her something. 

“We shared a house for a few years. Neal’s a nice guy.”

That seemed to satisfy her for the moment. “Didn’t see a wedding ring, do you know if he’s married?”

“Look, it’s been four years since I was in Boston.” Peter fiddled with the paperclips on his desk and forced himself to stop.

“So, you have no clue?”

Peter was saved from answering by the alert on his computer; it was time for the ten o’clock staff meeting.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal always loved first days: the first day back to school, the first day of work, the first day in a new apartment. It was the thrill of the unknown. When he had started at Drake Morrissey after law school, it wasn’t like this. He had clerked at the firm since the summer of his freshman year and knew everyone. His first day at Harvard was a little different. He’d been more excited about sharing a dorm room with Peter than his classes.

Today was the first day of all first days. Today was going to be the best first day of the rest of his life. 

Peter had cautioned him, of course; he warned him against seeming too eager, too friendly, too helpful. The agents in the division were all seasoned veterans, good at what they did, but naturally suspicious of new faces. They were also territorial, ambitious, and could make his life a misery for no reason at all.

Still, Neal wasn’t put off. As long as Peter was there, as long as he had his back, there was nothing to worry about.

Except that a small voice kept whispering that Peter wasn’t going to be able to have his back. As far as anyone was concerned, they were acquaintances from their college years, long out of touch. It took some will, but Neal silenced that voice. No matter what, Peter wasn’t going to let anything bad happen to him, not if he could help it. 

Besides, he was Neal George Caffrey and he could do anything he set his mind to doing.

Agent Hughes was surprisingly cordial. Neal hadn’t figured on the SAIC rolling out the red carpet for him and he wondered how well this was going to play out. He could see the speculation in some of the other agents’ eyes. He was going to have to watch his step with Jack Franklin – he said he had a friend at Drake Morrissey, but didn’t say who. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out just who the agent talked to and what was said about him. 

“You’ll join the ten o’clock staff meeting, Caffrey, and then you can get settled in.” Hughes tugged at his elbow, guiding him up to the conference room on the balcony level. The room was sizable, but there wasn’t a free chair except for the one at the head of the table. Neal knew better than to take that one. He made his way to the window ledge across the room from where Peter was sitting, grabbed one of the yellow legal pads, leaned against the wall and waited for the meeting to begin. If he was hoping for a reaction from Peter, he was disappointed. 

Agent Hughes ran the meeting efficiently, calling on each agent to update the status of the current projects. He thoroughly grilled each of them – why were certain steps taken or not taken? No one was under heavy fire, but Hughes was pretty clear when he was disappointed. It was a familiar process, similar to the staff meetings that the partners ran at his old firm, but with a tighter focus.

Of course he paid attention to everyone, but when it was Peter’s turn, Neal found himself tense with expectation.

“Burke – where are you on Dihatsu Trading?”

Peter grimaced and Neal’s heart sank for him. “I’m still waiting for the translation of the purchase and sale orders. Language services won’t give me an ETA.”

Hughes shook his head. “Not good – we’re up against a statute of limitation problem. You’ll need to push harder. Go sit on them if you have to, I don’t want to hear any more excuses.”

Neal heard himself speak before he realized he was going to say anything. “I’m fluent in Japanese, maybe I can help?”

Peter didn’t look too happy about his offer. “Sir – I’ll lean on them to get it done. No need – ”

Hughes cut him off. “Burke, if Caffrey says he can help, let him help.” Peter nodded reluctantly and Hughes continued. “For those of you who weren’t around this morning, this is Neal Caffrey, my new probie.”

Neal gave a jaunty little wave and all of a sudden people were throwing coffee orders at him. He knew that the life of a probie was a lot of filing and fetching, but this was almost enough to make him regret leaving his law practice. Hughes, thankfully, cut off the agents’ demands.

“I said, Neal Caffrey is MY probie. He fetches coffee for me and only me. Got that? He is not the office gopher - we’ve got interns and clerks to help. Make use of them. And learn to get your own goddamned coffee.”

That shut everyone up but earned Neal quite a few stares - some overtly hostile, some merely speculative. He guessed that Agent Hughes had never been so possessive of a probationary agent before.

New assignments were handed out to agents, and to Neal’s shock, he was handed a folder. 

“It’s a cold case, but let’s see what you’re made of, Caffrey. The translations for Burke are a priority, but I expect to see your analysis on this by close of business tomorrow.”

The agents filed out of the conference room, and Peter gave him a look that promised retribution when they got home. Neal mentally shrugged and peeked at the file - it looked like an index for a fairly large case - US v. Sullivan Savings & Loan. He swallowed, dismayed by the age of the file - it was dated 1989. This might be an impossible task - the S&L crisis of the late 1980s was becoming a distant memory.

“Problems?” Hughes’ question was not rhetorical.

“Not so far, but I’ll let you know if I’m conflicted out.”

“Good. Now get out and get to work.”

Neal went downstairs, to the desk he’d been assigned to. There was a thick file waiting for him with Peter’s distinctive handwriting on the attached note. “Don’t work on the originals - make copies. Burke.”

He didn’t know whether to be amused or worried. He decided on amusement. Peter was … Peter. He made copies and started translating. It was slow and tedious and he understood why Language Services weren’t too eager to get going on this. Many of the pages had handwritten notes, of course in Japanese, and it was the information in these addenda that could make or break the case. 

He had finished the first fifteen pages when he noticed people getting up and heading out for lunch. He looked a little eagerly towards Peter’s desk, but he had already gotten up and was leaving with the two agents he’d been talking to when Hughes introduced him - Franklin and Grainger. They walked right by him without even an acknowledgement. Neal understood, but understanding didn’t make him feel any better about being ignored. 

Another half hour of work and Neal decided to go grab a sandwich. He knew the area well enough to find a place – his old office was just a block over – but he still hated eating alone.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter came back from lunch with Jack and Amy - a thoroughly unenjoyable meal from Peter’s perspective - and found a stack of papers on his desk. The first portion of the translated orders from Dihatsu was finished and waiting for him. He looked over at Neal, who must have felt his gaze, because he looked up and their eyes met. Neal gave him a small, hopeful smile and Peter was taken back to the first day of seventh grade when he found Neal assigned to the seat next to him in Social Studies. He’d been so nervous and so determined not to show it - skipping sixth grade was a big deal.

Back then, Peter had smiled back, nodded and made sure that no one messed with Neal. Now, Neal could take care of himself, but he was still nervous and there was just as much at stake. He gave him a small smile and a nod of thanks and started to read the documents.

But he really wasn’t concentrating. Working with Neal was going to be so damn difficult. Having him right here, just a few feet away, and having to pretend that they were little more than acquaintances, was going to be torture. They had been apart for so long that even the weekend of sex, sex and more sex didn’t begin to make up for their long separation. Just gazing at Neal’s profile - pure and perfect - was enough to make him hard. It was like they were back in that hotel room and he was sinking balls-deep into Neal’s hot, slicked up ass, loving him, fucking him for the first time in five long, lonely months. 

He shifted in his chair, a little uncomfortable. 

“Ants in your pants?” Amy commented.

“Huh?”

“You’re squirming like my dog does when she’s got worms.”

Annoyed with himself, and just as annoyed with Amy and her foul mouth, he commented, “What are you, twelve?”

“No, but I see what’s going on.”

“And what does that mean.”

She sniffed and looked over at Neal. “You’re worried that the blue-eyed boy is going to blot out your rising star. Hughes is all over him and you’re going to find yourself on the road to Nowheresville.” 

“I doubt that. He’s a probie on his first day.” Peter did allow just a hint of worry to creep into his reply.

Amy smirked. “Yeah, right and I know the scent of flop sweat when I smell it. I’ve been here eight years and seen probies come and go and not one of them had the red carpet rolled out like that.”

His desk phone rang and he turned his back to Amy before answering it. He’d been cultivating a disgruntled trader at Pederson Weller Kline, one of the brokerages at the center of the insider trading scheme he’d been working on, and the man sounded like he was ready to talk. He grabbed his jacket, pocketed his gold shield, and headed for the elevators. He passed Neal’s desk, aching to stop and say something, but he didn’t. 

He couldn’t.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was close to six and Neal lingered at the office, alternating between the translations and reviewing the Sullivan S&L file, which wasn’t a typical collapse of a small thrift institution, but a complex fraud case.

Peter came back and left again, this time with Agent Franklin, and neither man had returned yet.

Involved in a translation of the extensive _tegaki_ , handwritten Japanese, on one of the documents. Neal didn’t hear Hughes come down from his office.

“It’s your first day, Caffrey - you don’t have to burn the world down. Yet.”

Neal looked up and smiled. “Sorry, sir. Just involved in this. It’s fascinating. I may have found the smoking gun.”

Hughes raised a bushy and all too skeptical eyebrow. “Really? Your very first day, and you’ve found the one piece of information that’s eluded a dozen agents in all their months of investigation?”

Neal couldn’t stop a flush of embarrassment at the rebuke. But he stood by what he found. “Look at this, sir.” He pulled out one of the pages he’d finished. “This is an order to purchase a hundred thousand shares of Severid Systems, which was trading at 45 and 3/16th’s a share. The notes made by the trader on the order say ‘Per info from Tomo Takedo. Confirmed purchase on NASDAQ, plus instructions to sell on Friday, January 9 at 9:45 am.’ I checked, Tomo Takedo was the chairman of HonKai Chemicals, and Severid, a German chemical company, booked a high volume order with HonKai earlier that month. The deal was kept quiet until after their earnings report was released in Germany on afternoon of the 9th. Which would have been just as the markets opened in New York. Severid went up nineteen points on the news. The brokerage was trading on insider information.” He grabbed another page. “Here is the corresponding sale transaction - at 9:45 am on January 9th. They made a bundle. Can’t believe someone was so stupid to make notes like that.”

Hughes’ lips twitched. “Smoking gun, indeed. So much for starting out slowly, easing your way into the office. Good thing Burke’s your friend, otherwise he’d be mighty pissed that you picked this up.”

Neal hadn’t thought about that. “It’s still Peter’s case; I’m just translating the documents.”

Hughes’ stare was level, but Neal knew just what it meant. “Finish the translations; don’t worry about the report on the Sullivan case. It’s been cold for over half a decade, it can wait a few days or weeks. This …” He tapped the pile of papers. “Is your priority right now.” Hughes turned to leave.

“Um, sir?”

“Yes, Caffrey?”

“Will Peter –” He corrected himself. “Excuse me, Will Agent Burke be back tonight? I wanted to give him this.”

“Burke and Franklin were following up a lead on one for Franklin’s cases and it could be a few hours before they’re back. The morning is soon enough. You’ve done a good day’s work, so go home.” 

Neal thought about waiting, but as the office emptied out, he figured it would be the worst kind of brown-nosing to hang around. He’d see Peter when he got home, anyway.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was weird taking the N train again, like nothing had changed. Except that everything had – he carrying a gun, not a briefcase. The weight of his firearm, the heft and bulk of it under his suit jacket, was novel, strange. He wondered if other passengers could see the bulge. Flexing his shoulders at the pull of the still unfamiliar shoulder rig, Neal winced at the jacket’s uncomfortable tightness. He needed to get to the tailor and figured he’d end up paying the man a bundle to see him on a Saturday. Neal could just imagine the expression on Hughes’ face if he asked for a long lunch break because he needed to get his suits fixed.

The train stopped at a dozen stations before coming to a halt one last time – his stop. Neal didn’t need to translate the incomprehensible announcement coming over the loudspeaker. It was early April, and at six-thirty, there was still an hour’s worth of daylight left. He enjoyed the walk to the apartment and was surprised to see a few kids around; someone had organized a game of stickball. Maybe the neighborhood wasn’t as bad as he remembered.

Neal stopped to watch the kids play and grinned as a boy hit the ball over the fielders’ heads. He ran as if his life depended on it. The ball came to rest on the sidewalk by his feet and a little kid – a boy maybe eight or nine came to fetch it. He vaguely recognized the child – he probably lived in the same building. “Hey, mister – can we have the ball back?”

Neal picked it up, tossed it to the kid, and was about to head into the apartment building when a man ran up to him, red-faced with anger and started shouting in his face.

“You – you faggot – you stay away from my kid!”

_Shit_. The boy was one of his neighbor’s and the guy was crazy. When they first moved in, he started in on Neal because he held the door open for his wife. At some point, he realized that he and Peter shared a one-bedroom apartment, and therefore were faggots. Yeah, they were, but that was no one’s business. And oddly enough, the son of a bitch never bothered Peter, just him.

Neal ignored him and continued up the front steps.

The man, ironically named Meeker, grabbed his arm. “Hey – I said – you stay away from my kid, pervert. I’ll call the cops if I see you near him again.”

Neal turned around. “Take your hand off me. I’m going to say for the very last time, I have no interest in your kids, in your wife, or you.” He shook himself free. “Now leave me alone.”

“I heard what you and that other fag got up to last night – you’re filth, a disgusting perverted piece of filth, and I’m going to make sure you go to straight to Hell.”

“I said, back off.” Neal was surprised when Meeker sneered and walked away, around the corner. He opened the outer door and fumbled for his keys to the security door, finally getting it opened. He heard the outer door open and turned around. Meeker had come back, a piece of iron rebar in his fist and murder in his eyes.

The space between the inner and outer door was small, but not small enough to keep Meeker from trying to bash his brains in. Neal pushed into the building’s inner lobby but was unable to prevent the man from following. He swung at Neal, missed and raised his arm to try again.

Neal reacted as his training taught him; he pulled his gun, flicked off the safety and hoped like hell he wasn’t going to have to shoot someone on his very first day as an FBI agent. Meeker stopped, the iron bar raised to deliver a killing blow.

“I will shoot you and I will kill you. So drop it, now.

Meeker’s ugly face curled into an even uglier snarl. “Little faggot is gonna need a bigger gun. You better learn to sleep with one eye opened, because I’m gonna end you.” He threw the rebar aside and screamed again, “I’m gonna end you.”

Neal holstered his gun, but left the safety off. “You’re making a mistake, Meeker. Just stay away from me.” He knew that reasoning with this guy was pointless, but he had to try. Instead of backing off, Meeker charged him. Neal punched him once in the belly and once across the face, a right hook to the jaw. Meeker crashed back into the door and collapsed; momentarily stunned. Neal took the opportunity to pick up the rebar that Meeker tossed aside, using a scrap of newspaper to keep his fingerprints off it.

Commonsense would have Neal handcuffing Meeker before calling 911, except that he didn’t have handcuffs. Probies were issued service weapons as part of their training, but they didn’t get the first pair of cuffs until after reporting to their first assignment. It would be a few weeks before he got his.

That didn’t help now, and Meeker wasn’t going to stay unconscious for long. Neal retreated up the stairs, to the apartment. Opening the four deadbolts wasn’t easy while watching out for a murderous assailant. Neal got inside, put the rebar on the kitchen counter and called the police to report the assault.

While he waited for the cops to arrive, Neal pulled out his suitcases and started packing. He’d stay until Peter came home, but he wasn’t going to spend another night here. His life was more important than Peter’s pride.

__  


Jack Franklin dragged a hand through his hair, frowning. “Sorry, Peter. Didn’t mean to take you on a wild goose chase.”

It was nearly eight and Peter was tired and frustrated, but he didn’t let it show. “It’s okay. These things happen.”

They’d been out, trying to track down a witness for one of Jack’s cases. The guy had a history of violence and Franklin asked Peter to come with him as back up. Of course, the witness wasn’t in any of his usual haunts, and after four hours of fruitless searching, they headed back towards the office.

“I will pin this sucker down even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Peter winced. He wasn’t superstitious, but it was never a good idea to make vows like that, particularly about hostile witnesses with extensive gun collections. “I’m going to catch the subway and head home. See you tomorrow.”

“You sure? The least I can do for dragging you through three of the five Boroughs is to buy you a burger and a beer.” 

Jack’s offer was temping, and last week, he would have jumped on it. But that was last week, when he didn’t have anyone to go home to. Tonight, Neal was there, waiting for him, probably eager to talk about the day.

“Thanks, but I’m going to take a rain check.”

“Sure thing. Next time we go out for Happy Hour, I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Sounds good.” 

Peter turned towards the subway, anticipating the greeting he was going to get when he walked in the door. Even before Neal had headed to Quantico, there had been way too many nights when he came home to an empty apartment. Neal’s career at Drake Morrissey had been nothing short of spectacular, but that had meant long hours and many nights that Neal stayed in the city. There were days – if not weeks – where they barely saw each other.

Now, though … Now they’d have plenty of time to be together. Even if they pretended they barely knew each other at work, all Peter would have to do is look up and Neal would be there. He could go over to the file cases and listen to his voice. He could watch Neal shine and know that he belonged to him and only him.

He dropped a token into the turnstile and moved forward without checking to see that it was accepted. Of course it wasn’t and the bar jammed into his hips; any lower and he’d be in real pain. Peter glared at the damn thing, fished around for another token and came up empty. There was a transit cop guarding an open gate and Peter did something he’d normally despise; he flashed his badge and nodded at the gate. The cop nodded back and let him through to the platform. 

At least there wasn’t a long wait for the subway. It was a short hop from Chambers to Union Square, where he transferred to the N train, which would take him into Queens. _Home._

The rhythm of the train reminded him of the semi-argument he had with Neal yesterday. He knew that their apartment was a shithole. He had taken it before Neal had gotten transferred from DC back to New York. It was what he could afford on his probationary agent’s salary. Neal hadn’t said anything when he saw it, but Peter could read the disappointment in his eyes. He had taken home three times what Peter earned, but even that amount was a laughable pittance compared to the money that Adler left him. Neal could afford a lot better, but he knew that Peter wouldn’t accept any living arrangement where he couldn’t contribute an equal share.

It wasn’t so bad for the first few years, but the building changed hands and the new owner had little interest in providing even the basic upkeep. It wasn’t until new tenants moved in next door – a husband and wife and two children – that Neal had started pushing the issue. The kids were kids, a little noisy at inconvenient hours sometimes, but the father was a loudmouth who had taken an instant dislike to Neal. Other than a few sneers, he left Peter alone, but had repeatedly made rude gestures and comments to Neal, who did his best to ignore the behavior. 

Had the guy been a drunk, an obvious drug user or overtly violent, Peter wouldn’t have hesitated to interfere, but he seemed okay with his family, if a little over-protective. He just had a strange, irrational hatred for Neal. Peter had wished that the guy would relax and forget about it when Neal was away, but that was apparently too much to hope for. 

Last night, when they got back from Washington, he was in the lobby. He saw Neal and looked like he was about to explode. Neal didn’t say a word until the man left.

Neal didn’t say a word while they climbed the three flights to their apartment. He didn’t say a word while Peter unlocked the four deadbolts on the steel security door. Not a word while he changed out of his suit into more casual clothes. It wasn’t until Neal opened the lockbox and put his gun away that he said anything.

“This is going to end badly, you know that. Meeker’s insane.”

“He’s a bit crazy, yeah – but he’s not going to do anything. Come on – he’s got a wife and kids.”

“He’s also a raging homophobe.”

“Can’t you just ignore him?”

“You sound like an elementary school teacher – ‘just ignore the bully and he’ll stop’. It doesn’t work like that, and you know it. I have ignored him and I’ll keep ignoring him. Up until the point where he tries to take a bat to my head. I might just have to kill him, and then we’ll definitely have to move.”

Peter blinked. Neal was joking, but he wasn’t really. They dropped the subject in favor of what Neal should expect from his first day at the White Collar offices. Still, the issue lingered in the air like a bad smell.

He supposed that they could find a nicer place within his budget, now that he was making more money, but he could hear Neal’s argument as clearly as if the man was standing next to him. _I own three dozen really nice apartments in Manhattan, it doesn’t make sense to rent any out here._ Objectively, Neal was right – it didn’t make sense. Except that it meant that he would be living off Neal. It didn’t really matter that the apartments had been owned by Adler, what mattered was that he didn’t earn them – and that made it impossible. 

They had reached an impasse. Neal pushed, but Peter refused to budge, knowing that Neal would eventually see things his way. And he did. 

By the time the train pulled into his station, Peter was able to convince himself that there was no need to feel guilty about riding roughshod over his partner’s feelings.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was impossible to pack all of his suits, so Neal picked three to last him through the week. He’d make arrangements to have the rest picked up on Saturday. He wasn’t coming back here, ever.

Neal just hoped that Peter would see reason.

Just as he finished stuffing some casual clothing into a duffle bag, there was a heavy knock on the door, followed by the brusque announcement: “NYPD.”

He checked the peephole. There were two uniformed offices with hands on their service revolvers. One of them banged again, demanding entrance, like they were about to arrest him. _What the fuck?_ He took a deep breath and stepped back. Maybe they had the wrong apartment. 

“Neal Caffrey, this is the police. Open up.”

_Shit._ They didn’t have the wrong apartment. That bastard, Meeker, must have called the cops, too. He unlocked the door and opened it, putting on a thoroughly puzzled look.

“Neal Caffrey?”

“Yes? What’s the matter, Officers?”

The older cop, a sergeant from the bars on her uniform, asked him to step into the hallway.

He was even more puzzled now. The only reason why they’d ask him to step out is if they wanted to arrest him. Neal declined the “invitation” and issued one of his own. “You can come in. I was expecting you - but not quite like this.” 

They did, and Neal was careful to leave the door open. Before either cop could say anything, he took control of the situation, “Your names and precinct, please?”

“Sergeant Olivia Shattuck and Officer Mitchell Owen, out of the 114th Precinct. We received a complaint that you assaulted your neighbor, Anthony Meeker, and threatened to shoot him.”

A tic started in Neal’s right eyelid. “Actually, officers, _I_ called 911 and filed a complaint. Mr. Meeker assaulted me – he tried to bash my head in with that –” Neal pointed to the piece of rebar on the kitchen counter. “I drew my weapon and told him I’d shoot him if he tried to kill me.”

“Your weapon? You admit to pulling a gun on your neighbor?”

“Yes, officers, I do.” 

Both cops took up a more defensive position at Neal’s admission. “Please keep your hands visible, Mr. Caffrey.”

He complied, but decided to end this farce. “Actually, it’s Special Agent Caffrey, FBI.” He held up a hand, “May I?” The officers nodded and Neal reached into his pocket, taking out his ID folder and flicking it open.

The cops saw the gold shield and relaxed. Shattuck asked, “What’s your beef with Meeker?”

“I have none. The guy seemed to hate me from the moment he moved in.”

“He says that you …” She looked down at her note pad. “Approached his son and made lewd comments. That this wasn’t the first time.”

“I – I …” Neal was at a loss for words. “I have no idea what is going on in that man’s head.” He described everything that happened with the kid and the ball. 'I didn't say anything “lewd” to him,' he finished, feeling sick. He walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water. The water sloshed in the glass as his hand shook.

“You seem awfully nervous, Agent Caffrey. Why?”

He leaned on the counter. “I’ve just been accused of something unthinkable, officer. Something so horrific …” Neal couldn’t continue. His vision narrowed to a dark tunnel and he couldn’t breathe. He was twelve years old and Vincent Adler was trying to break into his bedroom…

“Sir? Sir? Are you okay?”

There was a commotion at the door, loud enough to break Neal out of his panicked fog. It was Meeker, jumping up and down and shouting, “You gonna to arrest that fairy faggot, right? You gonna die in jail, you filthy cocksucker!”

Shattuck flicked her head at her partner, who went to deal with Meeker, shutting the door behind him.

Neal took another drink of water, but it did nothing to wash away the sour taste of bad memories. At least it gave him time to compose himself. “I have never touched or approached any of Mr. Meeker’s children. If he says I have, he’s a liar. Any more questions, Sergeant?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter had noticed the police cruiser double parked in front of the apartment building and idly wondered which of his fellow tenants were in trouble. He let himself into the building, picked up the mail because Neal never did - he claimed his key didn’t work - and headed up the three flights to the apartment.

There were times, particularly after long days, that Peter wished the building had an elevator, but usually, he was fine with all of the stairs. He spent so many hours at his desk, Peter reasoned that climbing the steps was the only exercise he was going to get most days. 

He was flipping through the mail, and didn’t notice the uniformed cop standing outside his neighbor’s apartment door until he heard a familiar and angry voice – it was his neighbor, Meeker. The man was in handcuffs and arguing with a police officer. The look on his face sent a chill of dread through Peter and he rushed to his own apartment.

The door was unlocked and he entered, terrified at what he might find. 

And was nearly overwhelmed with relief to see Neal standing at the kitchen counter, looking like shit, but otherwise fine. There was another cop there. Startled by his sudden entrance, she put her hand on her gun.

Peter held out his hands in the universal not-a-threat gesture. “Neal, what’s going on?”

“Meeker tried to kill me tonight.” 

His answer drove and icy stake of fear through him. Before he could go to Neal, the cop stepped between them. “And who are you?”

He pulled out his ID and introduced himself. “Neal and I are roommates; I live here.”

The officer nodded and introduced herself. “Were you aware of problems between Mr. Meeker and your … roommate.”

Peter wasn’t too happy with her subtle emphasis on that last word, but he didn’t make an issue out of it. “Yes, I was. I am. Meeker and his family moved in about a year ago and he seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Neal.”

“And you – what about you?”

“He doesn’t seem to have a problem with me. I – we – had hoped that Meeker would forget about his imaginary beef with Neal while he was away.”

“Away?”

Neal answered. “I was in training at Quantico since November. Just got home yesterday.”

Sergeant Shattuck shook her head. “And on your very first day on the job, you threatened to shoot someone?”

“Neal, what the hell happened?”

“Like I said, Peter, he tried to kill me.”

“Mr. – Agent Caffrey claims that Meeker assaulted him with a piece of rebar.” That would explain why there was a length of the stuff on the kitchen counter.

“Are you okay?” It seemed like such a stupid question to ask.

“He didn’t hit me, but if I hadn’t I pulled my gun on him, he would have.” Neal shook his head. “My first day …”

Peter wanted to go to Neal, he wanted to wrap his arms around him and hold him, to erase that look of fear in his eyes.

“Agent Burke – I have to ask this…”

“What?”

“Mr. Meeker, when he made his own complaint, claimed that Agent Caffrey had behaved inappropriately towards his son. And that he had done it before. Do you know anything about this?”

Peter was stunned. Of all the things to accuse Neal of! Now he understood Neal’s shocked appearance. He took a deep breath. “I will say, categorically and under oath, that there is no truth to those accusations.”

Shattuck nodded. “Okay. I’ll file my report, but I don’t think this will go any further.”

“I saw that Meeker was in cuffs. Are you arresting him?”

Neal perked up at that.

“Owens probably needed to cuff him to get Meeker under control. But right now, it’s a case of your word against his, even if we can get prints off the rebar. And you know, if we arrest him, we’re going to have to address his accusations.” 

“There’s no truth to them,” Neal lifted his chin, all but daring the world.

“No – but an investigation means that your private life is not going to be so private anymore. And while I’d like to think we live in a more enlightened age …” 

Neal sighed, “Yeah, yeah – I get it. It’ll be big news how a pair of queers are FBI agents.”

Since there really was no further need to pretend anymore, Peter went over to Neal and rested a hand on his back, rubbing gently against the tight muscles. He looked at Shattuck, grateful for her understanding and discretion. “Is there anything else?”

“Stay out of Meeker’s way if you can. That’s about all the advice I can give.”

“We’re moving out of here, so it won’t be hard.” Peter didn’t visibly react to Neal’s sudden start, but guilt and grief at tonight’s near-tragedy twisted his soul.

Shattuck gave them both a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry that it’s come to that, but it’s probably for the best. Just be careful until you’re out of here, neither of you should come and go alone.”

“We’ll be leaving tonight.” Peter answered for both them. Neal gave him a look of utter gratitude.

Shattuck asked, “You’re staying with friends?”

“No – we have a place in Manhattan.” Neal wore a pleading expression on his face, begging him not to contradict. Neal continued, “It belonged to my family – we’ve been sorting out the details.”

“Okay – but give me the address, in case we have to follow up with you.”

Neal rattled off the Upper West Side address. 

Shattuck closed her notebook and put it away. “I guess that’s it. Just take care.”

Peter escorted the sergeant to the door, locking it behind her.

Neal hadn’t moved, his arms braced against the kitchen counter like it was the only way to stay upright. He was still wearing his suit, but looked nothing like the bright and shining young agent who started work this morning. He was haggard, drained and Peter went to him, wrapping his arms around him, holding him close.

“I’m sorry, I am so goddamned sorry.”

“For what?”

“This is my fault – I should have listened to you.” The thought of what might have happened sent an icy shaft of fear through him. “I could have lost you because I was too stubborn, too stupidly proud.”

Neal finally relaxed, letting go and leaning into him. “Yeah, but you’re a smart guy. You learn from your mistakes.”

And just like that, there was forgiveness. Peter breathed in deep, letting Neal’s familiar scent fill his lungs. “You okay?”

“Yeah, now.” But Neal didn’t let go of him. “You know what I was thinking when I pulled my gun?” He didn’t wait for Peter to answer. “What the instructor at Quantico told us: ‘Never pull your gun unless you’re prepared to kill someone. Don’t shoot to wound, shoot to kill.’ If Meeker hadn’t stopped, I might have had to kill him.”

He held Neal just a little tighter. Neal lifted his head and looked into his eyes; Peter was taken aback by the pain, the vulnerability there. He was too accustomed to thinking of Neal as invincible. But he wasn’t. His partner, the love of his life, was as frail as any other human. 

Stunned, raw and as needy, Peter kissed him. He could taste the sourness of fear and tried to give Neal back some of the sweetness, the joy that they had celebrated just a few days earlier.

They made their way into the bedroom, and Peter stopped short. There was a closed suitcase on the bed and a duffle bag on the floor. “Neal?”

“I wasn’t going to leave before you came home – but I couldn’t stay here.” 

Peter wasn’t angry, just sad and upset with himself. “Yeah, I understand completely.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It didn’t taken Peter long to pack a few suits and other necessities; they were out of the building and in a town car in less than an hour. Neal took his bags down first, Peter at his back and the process was repeated with the roles reversed. It felt like they were leaving a war zone.

Neal didn’t relax until the car crossed the 59th Street Bridge and they got caught in crosstown traffic. Peter’s hand rested on top of his, and he was grateful for that simple physical connection. The car finally broke free of the traffic and they were at their destination in a few short minutes. 

131 Riverside Drive was a universe away from the building off of Ditmars Boulevard and even though Neal hadn’t spent many nights here – just when he had needed to work until the early hours of the morning – it still felt more like home than the apartment in Queens. He wasn’t a snob, and rightfully, he should have rejected anything that had the slightest connection to Vincent Adler, but something about this place spoke to him, made him want to stay and never leave. 

The doorman, sporting a red coat with brightly polished buttons and a name tag that said “Alvin”, rushed to open the car door. 

“Mr. Caffrey – I got your message, the apartment’s ready for you.”

Neal smiled, grateful.

“It was a little too late to get a full grocery order, but the basics are there. Coffee, milk, juice, some fresh fruit. If you’d like, I’ll leave a note to have a dozen bagels delivered in the morning …”

He kept talking as he took their bags – nearly grabbing Peter’s out of his hand – and didn’t stop until they were inside the twelfth-floor apartment. He would have taken the luggage up to their bedroom, but enough was enough. Neal pressed a generous tip and stifled a grin as Alvin all but bowed to them and handed Neal the spare set of keys.

“Nice place,” Peter commented as he wandered around the living room.

“Do you think you could be happy here?” Neal held his breath on Peter’s answer.

“I still have my reservations –”

Neal’s heart sank.

“But those are _my_ problems and I’ll work through them. Regardless,” Peter held out his hand to him. 

Neal took it and let himself be drawn into his lover’s arms. “I just want you to be happy; I don’t want this to make you miserable.” He kissed Peter’s neck, his jaw, finally his lips. 

“You are my home and you make me very happy.” Peter kissed him back, gentle at first, then with the hunger that Neal loved and never failed to respond to. His mouth was invaded, but Peter was a welcome conqueror.

He mewled, rubbing himself against Peter – wanting, always wanting, always needing this - the roughness, the urgency. His hands worked their way under Peter’s suit jacket, pulling at his shirt, getting tangled in the leather straps of his shoulder rig. Peter held him still, cupping his head, his fingers rough and firm against his skull.

“Need you, now. Need you naked.”

Peter let go of him long enough for them both to strip. Need, desire rode him so hard that Neal couldn’t think of anything but his skin against Peter’s as he tossed his jacket aside, pulled off his own shoulder harness, ripped off his tie. He toed off his shoes and before he could get his pants off, Peter had pushed him back against the wall, pinning him there with his hips while he stripped, too.

“We’re going to christen this place and we’re going to do it in every damned room.” Peter growled as he pulled Neal’s pants open then shoved his own down. Their cocks rode against each other, their mingled pre-come the only lube they needed.

Neal wrapped a leg around Peter, his strong thigh pulling them even closer. He reveled in the harshness of this coupling, riding Peter like he was creature made just for his own pleasure. The friction was gorgeous, just on the right side of pain as Neal wrapped his hand around their cocks, stroking and pulling in desperate urgency. 

Peter’s head was pressed into his neck, his grunting, straining breaths another goad, and instead of kissing him, Neal bit down on his neck, hard. Peter came in a hot, almost scalding rush, against his belly. The desperate frotting slowed to something richer, more sensual as Peter rubbed himself against Neal’s still aching erection.

“Make me come, please.”

Peter laughed; a breathy and delighted exhalation. “Oh, yes - I’m going to make you come until you’re blind from it.”

Neal whimpered and leaned back against the wall as Peter went to his knees, kissing his belly, licking the come and sweat, his tongue teasing the taut skin at the edge of his pubes, avoiding his aching cock. The torment was perfect and excruciating, a most refined torture and Neal whimpered again. Peter blew a stream of hot air across the head of his cock; it jerked harder against his belly. Neal thrust his hips forward, as if he were trying to copulate with the air.

“Peter… I need you.”

Maybe it was those last three words that made Peter stop teasing him. He took as much of Neal’s cock into his mouth as he could, trying to give as much pleasure as he could. It was sloppy, without the finesse that Peter usually displayed, but Neal didn’t care. He was too aroused to appreciate any sort of artistry. Peter tried to deep-throat him and gagged, but he wouldn’t let Neal pull back, he just kept going for more and more until the heat and the pressure and the sensation of tongue and lips and hands and yes - even teeth - drove him over the edge. 

Neal’s world became an infinity of brilliance as his orgasm erupted. Peter caught him as his knees gave out and the both ended up on the floor.

“You okay?” Peter cradled him in his arms, and Neal never felt safer.

“Mmmm.” He buried his face in Peter’s neck, nuzzling against the crescent-shaped bruise his teeth had left.

Neal wasn’t sure how long they remained on the floor - it could have been a few minutes or a few hours. The time passed in a daze of post-orgasmic bliss.

“Is there a bed or are we going to spend the night on the floor?”

“There’s a bed upstairs.” Neal wasn’t sure he wanted to move.

“Come on.” Peter got to his feet, pulled his pants over his hips and zipped up. “Come on,” he repeated and held out a hand. Neal grasped it and let Peter help him upright. Except that he was caught up in his own come-damp clothing.

“Lean on me.” Peter held him still and managed to get everything straightened out. 

Neal clung to him; he was still a little dizzy - the day and its highs and lows had taken its toll. He had to smile when he spotted his gun and holster, tangled with Peter’s and their jackets. “We’d get thrown out of the Academy for such careless firearms handling.” He bent over to pick them up and nearly ended up back on the floor. 

“You don’t know how to listen, Caffrey, do you?” Peter growled as he steadied him. “I’ve got this.” Peter scooped up the clothing and weapons and shoulder rigs. “Now, where’s our bedroom?”

The master bedroom was on the duplex’s second floor - almost as large as their entire apartment in Long Island City. 

Peter whistled in appreciation.

“Like it?”

“What’s not to like?” Peter went over to the bank of windows and looked out – Riverside Park was dark, but they were on a high enough floor that the river traffic and the necklace of lights on the George Washington Bridge were visible. “Definitely a better view than the Park n’ Lock on Ditmars.”

Neal went to take care of their clothes and couldn’t help but grimace at the mess he - well, he and Peter - had made of them. He took off his shirt; cuff links and tie bar went into the leather valet on the dresser. The shirt itself was a lost cause, which was a pity since it was brand new. He had to smile at that thought. Was it only a few hours ago that he was fighting for his life?

There was a small safe in the closet - not as convenient as the gun safe at the other apartment, but it would have to do for the night. He removed the clips from both his and Peter’s firearms and winced when he saw that he’d never re-engaged the safety after his encounter with Meeker. 

He came out of the closet, naked as the day he was born. Peter was still standing at the window and from the curve of his shoulders, Neal could tell that he was brooding. They’d known each other long enough that he understood that it was best to let Peter have his quiet moment. Neal set the alarm clock, went to the bathroom and took a quick shower. 

Peter was still standing at the window when Neal came out. The time for brooding was over and he wrapped his arms around Peter’s waist and leaned his head against his shoulders. “Come on, let’s get some sleep.”

“Yeah - it’s been a day, hasn’t it?” Peter turned around in his arms and rested against him. Neal could feel the weariness radiating from him. 

Just as Peter had taken care of him before, Neal took care of Peter, stripping him to his skin. He pulled back the bedcovers and pushed Peter down. “Time for sleep. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.” He got into bed, on the same side of the bed he had been sleeping on since college. No matter the address, this was just the way things were.

Peter pulled him close and Neal turned to him, finding the comfort and peace he never wanted to be without.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The scent of good coffee worked its way into Peter’s sleeping consciousness and he opened his eyes. Neal was there, so close that his smile filled Peter’s entire field of vision.

“Good morning.”

Peter blinked, chasing away his sleep-wrought confusion. Neal pressed a soft kiss on Peter’s lips, then held a cup of coffee under his nose. The fragrant brew smelled almost as good Neal, fresh from the shower. He sat up and drained the cup. It was as perfect as any coffee he ever tasted, and a splendid way to wake up. “What time is it?”

Neal took the cup and sat down on the edge of the bed. “A little after six. You’ve got some time yet.” 

Peter groaned and stretched and tossed back the covers. “No, not really. I’ve got a meeting at eight with an informant at Pederson Weller Kline - he’s supposed to bring me proof of insider trading activity at the firm.” He looked at Neal, a picture of sartorial elegance in a navy pinstriped suit, ice-blue power tie and pristine white shirt. “You okay?”

“Yeah - I guess.”

“You were a bit restless last night.” 

“My brain wouldn’t turn off - I kept thinking about what could have happened.” Neal’s smile became strained. “I would have killed him.”

“Don’t think about it like that. You did what you were trained to do. Meeker really is nothing more than a grown-up version of a playground bully - the minute you showed that you were stronger, more powerful, he backed down.”

“I’m not so sure - Philip Kramer never tried to smash an iron bar into anyone’s head.”

Peter chuckled. “Neal - it’s over. We’re safe, we’ll never see the SOB again, okay?” He rested a hand on Neal’s shoulder, trying to ease his tension.

Neal finally sighed, “Okay. But we’re going to have to go back - we’ve got to clean out the apartment, get the rest of our stuff.”

“Don’t worry about that - I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to go back there.” 

“You?”

“Yeah me. Don’t be so skeptical.” Peter was going to call his dad and see if he could get a few guys from his crew to help get everything packed up and moved out. “Trust me.”

It didn’t take long for him to shower, shave and dress, even though he stopped to admire the bruise Neal’s teeth had left on his neck. He pulled his tie tight against his collar, sorry he had to hide it. 

Peter followed his nose - the scent of more coffee took him into the kitchen. Neal was leaning against a counter, mug in one hand, New York Times in the other. 

There was half a pot left. Peter poured himself another cup and snagged the sports section, not that there was any joy in Mudville. Peter and his dad had missed Opening Day, a Burke tradition, but the way the Yankees were playing, it didn’t matter. Might as well be a Mets fan. 

They stood there, leaning against the counter because the kitchen had no furniture. It was a beautiful space, with dark wood cabinets, lots of modern appliances and if he wasn’t mistaken, the countertops were the same freakishly expensive material that his mother had wanted to use when she had the kitchen redone. Peter couldn’t see the ratty table and chairs that they had in the old place (and wasn’t it funny, how after just one night here, the apartment they shared for more than three years was the “old place”) fitting in here. Hell, all of the furniture in that place was probably destined for a Dumpster. None of it was the least bit suitable for any place in this ZIP code.

“Whatever you are thinking can’t be too pleasant.” Neal folded up his section of the newspaper and put his cup in the sink. 

Peter deflected, “Just about all the crap I’ve got to wade through with this case.” He rinsed out his cup and Neal’s, putting both of them on the counter. “And by the way, thanks for the translations –”

“Shit – with everything, I completely forgot to tell you.”

As they left the apartment, Neal told him about the smoking gun he found. Peter was skeptical. “Probies don’t solve cases on their first days – not even stars like you.”

Neal rolled his eyes and ignored his compliment. “That’s what Hughes said, too. But when I showed him …” 

Peter listened and the skepticism gave way to amazement and the tiniest touch of resentment. Neal must have read some of that on his face, or from his body language. They boarded the subway and as the train picked up speed, Neal grew quiet.

He realized that he was being a total ass – he wouldn’t have felt like this if Language Services had translated the document. “Good work, Neal.”

Neal’s face lit up at _this_ compliment. “Thanks. Hughes told me to concentrate on getting the rest of the orders translated. I’ll try to finish them today or tomorrow.”

“You know that once it gets around that you’re polylingual, you’re going to be inundated with requests. You’ll wish that you’d be asked to fetch coffee, instead.”

“There’s a lot of translation work? A lot of foreign stuff?”

“Yeah.” They talked about the globalization of the financial markets until the train pulled into the City Hall station, just a few blocks away from the FBI building. Once they reached the street, Neal turned right, heading for the office. Peter watched him until he disappeared into the crowd, before heading towards Chinatown for his meeting.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal wondered if he should say anything about what happened last night to Agent Hughes, drawing his weapon on a civilian was a big deal and if word got back to the Bureau... While he was concerned about what might happen if he didn’t report it, Neal was more worried about what would happen if he did. Because someone was bound to ask why Anthony Meeker hated him enough to try and bash his brains in, and Neal wasn’t at all prepared for the inevitable disclosures that would follow.

So he figured that keeping quiet would be best – if Hughes did find out, Neal would plead ignorance of the rules, take a rap on the knuckles and move on.

Throughout the early morning, he kept his head down, working on the translations for Peter. It was a tedious process and more than once he snuck a look at the Sullivan S&L file, even though Hughes downgraded the priority.

Agents had started to migrate to the conference room for the regular morning meeting when Peter returned. There was a satisfied look on his face, which meant that his informant delivered. Neal couldn’t wait to hear about it – he couldn’t wait to see Peter shine.

He grabbed his notes, a pad and pen and headed to the conference room. Even though there were seats available today, Neal understood hierarchy. Until invited otherwise, he’d stand against the wall.

The routine was the same as yesterday’s; Agent Hughes went around the room, grilling each agent about the progress they’d made on open cases. It was Peter’s turn, finally, and yes – he had come up aces with his informant.

“Good work, Agent Burke. Since you just got back, Caffrey hasn’t had the chance to brief you on what he found last night. Agent Caffrey?”

While Neal thoroughly enjoyed the title, he didn’t relish being the center of attention, particularly of this group. But he wasn’t Neal George Caffrey for nothing. He’d presented arguments before the New York Court of Appeals and these agents had nothing on the seven august judges who grilled him.

He ordered his thoughts and repeated the information he’d already told Peter, who took notes, nodded and thanked him.

Agent Grainger gave him a suspicious look, but it was Agent Franklin who asked, “And how many languages are you fluent in, Caffrey?”

Neal noticed that his title was deliberately omitted. He was also mindful of Peter’s warning that he’d become inundated with translation work if he wasn’t careful. That didn’t stop him from telling the truth. “I’m fluent in six, seven if you count Russian, but my accent is terrible and I don’t have any idiom.” There were a few doubtful sneers on some of the agents’ faces and Neal figured, _why the hell not._ “My Portuguese as passable, as is my command of Romanian. And if you ever need a new translation of _Beowulf_ or _Caedamon’s Hymn_ , I know enough Old West Saxon to help you out.”

The room went silent and Neal found himself in a stare-down contest with Jack Franklin. The older agent gave him a small smile, nodded his head and broke eye-contact, conceding the victory.

Someone coughed and Agent Hughes picked up the threads of the meeting as if nothing had happened. Neal felt a little sick inside. He might have won this round, but he never realized that he was at war.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was like watching a train wreck, a disaster he was powerless to stop. Jack’s tone was calculated to set Neal’s back up – there was nothing he hated more than having his abilities questioned. Maybe it was because he was younger than his peers, maybe it was because he was always above the curve, smarter than almost anyone else in the room. Since they were kids, Neal had always been exceptional, but he had always been able to charm his way out of any resentment that caused.

Not today. Neal got angry and lost just enough control to screw himself over. Peter might have done the same thing if confronted by a sneering idiot. Except that Jack wasn’t a bad guy – just a little too self-invested.

The meeting broke, and Peter gathered his stuff. He was going to have to have a very public tête-à-tête with Neal about the Diahatsu memos, his first real interaction with Neal at the office. 

He was settled at his desk, keeping a hopefully discreet eye on Neal when someone yanked at his shirt collar.

“Whoo-hoo! Someone got more than a little action last night.” It was Grainger and she was looking at his neck. He must have loosened his tie as he normally did at the office, forgetting about the bite mark that Neal had left there last night.

Peter brushed away her hands and pulled the knot close, embarrassed. Grainger parked her shapely ass on his desk, crossed her spectacular legs (hell, he could still admire the female form), and gave him a speculative grin. “Had no idea you were seeing anyone, Burke.”

He shrugged.

“Oh, so it’s like that, you dog.” Amy’s legs bobbed up and down. “Was she good?”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” Peter doubted that would satisfy her curiosity. He was right.

“Come on, you’ve got a glorious hickey on your neck and you’re not going share? Don’t be such a damn saint, Peter.” She snickered at her own witticism. 

Peter thought of all the ways he could answer her. He could lie, he could deflect, or he could tell the truth. He opted for the last. “The sex was … spectacular.”

Someone gasped. It was Neal, file in hand and a flaming blush across his cheeks.

“Aww, you embarrassed the new probie.” Amy got up and went over to Neal, who had his head down and lips between his teeth. Peter knew that he was trying not to burst out laughing; he just happened to look shy and mortified. 

Amy swooped in for the kill, or so she thought. “Tell me, probie – have _you_ ever had spectacular sex?”

Neal looked everywhere but at him.

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue? You had no problems speaking up for yourself this morning.” She was relentless and Peter felt a little sorry for Neal.

He stepped in and put an end to the harassment. “Stop needling the kid, it’s his second day.” 

“You’re a soft touch, Peter. Probie needs to be able to stand up for himself.” Amy flounced over to the kitchenette, leaving him relatively alone with Neal.

“Here’s the next batch of translations for Dihatsu Trading.” Neal held out the folder. “No smoking gun in this set, but you may want to take a look at these.” He fanned out a few pages. “There’s a pattern here.” 

Neal walked him through what he found, but Peter was having a hard time paying attention. He was having a _hard_ time, period. Seeing Neal like this, so perfectly competent, was arousing as hell. It was like that time he watched Neal cross-examine a witness, he got rock-hard sitting on a hard bench in a public courtroom.

Right now, the little shit knew exactly what was happening. He didn’t look at Peter’s crotch, he didn’t smile or smirk, but his eyes were sparkling.

Peter felt the back of his neck begin to burn, his whole face go hot. Neal bent down, just a little closer and Peter would swear he could smell his arousal, too.

“Spectacular?”

“Yeah, absolutely spectacular.”

Neal’s pupils dilated, the black almost swallowing the blue. If there was any place in this office where they could be guaranteed just ten minutes of privacy …

“Hey, Burke – I think I’ve got a lead on my witness. He may have gone to ground on Staten Island.” Jack Sullivan interrupted the moment, and Peter didn’t know whether he should thank or curse the man. 

Neal stepped away and went back to his desk. Peter studiously avoided looking at him.

“Staten Island? You sure?” He retrieved his weapon from the lockbox in his desk, shrugged into his jacket. The cut was long enough to disguise his rapidly deflating erection.

He’d deal with Neal tonight. They’d both enjoy it.

The rest of the week lacked the excitement of the first two days, and Neal was grateful for that. By Friday, however, it was clear that he wasn’t going to be an office favorite with anyone other than Agent Hughes. Most of the older agents ignored him, even Jack Sullivan. Agent Grainger, though…

She was a different story altogether. Neal knew lawyers like that – women who thought they had to act like the most chauvinistic of men to get ahead, to break through the glass ceiling. He’d feel a little sorry for her except that she seemed to delight in embarrassing him. If she was a guy, if he was a woman, they’d have the makings of a decent sexual harassment suit. But there was no way he’d file a complaint. They were the wrong sexes and hell, it was still his first week.

Neal figured she’d get bored with chasing him in a few days. Or weeks. He’d deal with it.

Right now, though, his biggest problem was how he was dealing with his peers. There were three other probationary agents in the office, Arthur, Andrew and Adam, the “Triple-A Club” as Neal thought of them. All of them spent their days fetching files and fetching coffee, making copies and being ignored or insulted by the agents they assisted. The most senior of the three, Arthur, thought that he was hot shit when he got an assignment to do some computerized research. 

Then Neal arrived, and Hughes handed him a case file to review on his very first day.

They loathed him, and Neal understood completely. He wondered if he was in for an FBI-style beat-down when they cornered him in the back hallway.

“It’s not fair – you graduated just last _fucking_ week.”

Neal lifted his shoulders helplessly. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Arthur crowded him into the corner. “But you’ve got it anyway – I should be the one reviewing the Sullivan S&L case, not you.” _You little shit._

“I can talk to Agent Hughes …” Not that it would do any of them, himself included any good.

“Don’t bother – and don’t you dare ask any of us to do a damn thing for you.” 

No one pushed him, no one threatened him. But the threat was there all the same. _So much for the fraternity of agents._

Three days and everything was fucked up. Neal sighed, put on his brightest smile and went back to his desk. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter watched Neal, watched out for him that first week. He ached for Neal and the pattern that was quickly established. Hughes piled the work on him, not just the Sullivan S&L case, but some esoteric art forgery case involving half a dozen European galleries.

He liked Reese Hughes; he thought the agent was the best boss he ever had. He knew how to get the best out of his team, but he was doing a piss-poor job of handling Neal. It was wonderful that Hughes was treating him like a full-fledged agent. It would have been criminal to waste that intelligence and experience in the civilian side of white collar crime, but all of this special attention wasn’t going to win Neal any popularity contests at the office.

As an added complication, Grainger was stalking Neal, hanging around until he left the office for the day, asking him to lunch, flirting aggressively at every chance. When she wasn’t chasing Neal, she treated Peter to a litany of sexual speculation that would have made a sailor blush. 

The older agents thought Neal was showboating, the junior agents and probies looked like they wanted to take Neal apart, piece by piece. It didn’t help that Neal sailed through it, deliberately oblivious, exquisitely competent, and as perfectly untouchable as a cover model on some glossy fashion magazine.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Friday night, relaxing in bed, Peter wanted to talk about what was going on at the office. Neal insisted he was handling everything just fine.

“Don't lie to me.” 

“I'm not lying.”

“You most certainly are. When you lie, your eyes go wide; you stare and try not to blink, like you're Mr. Innocence.”

“I didn't realize I had such obvious tells.” Peter hauled him close, so his back was resting against his chest. 

“It's not obvious, it’s just something I can see because I’ve known you for most of my life. I don't think anyone else would pick up on it. And stop trying to deflect the conversation.”

Neal sighed, giving into the inevitable. “I can handle myself.”

“I know you can, but you shouldn't have to. You should be …”

“What? Invisible unless I'm fetching coffee or files or making copies?” Peter didn't have a reply to that. “I’m not oblivious. I know what Hughes is doing is setting me apart and that people aren't happy about it.”

“Anyone harassing you over it?”

Neal debated against telling Peter about his encounter with the Triple-A Club. “If someone doesn't like it, they can complain to Hughes.”

“Who'll tell them that they can shove it, making it worse. You’re his probie, he can treat you however he wants. The problem is that probies don't get their own cold cases their very first week. They don't get treated like they're the second coming of J. Edgar.”

Neal tried for a little levity. “Hey - I resent that. I don't dress in pink chiffon.”

It didn’t work. “You know what I mean. He's singled you out for special treatment and that doesn't sit well with the rank and file.”

“Peter, I'll manage it. Have you ever known me not to make friends and influence people?” Neal tried not to think about Meeker, back at the old place. But Meeker was insane, and that meant he didn't count. And there was Walter O'Donnell, too. But Walter was a moron, and he didn't count, either. “I'll just be my own sweet self. I'll win them over in no time.” 

“I just wish …” Peter sighed, he didn’t need to complete that thought.

“I know, I know.” Desperate to change the subject, Neal moved Peter’s hand from his midriff to a spot about six inches lower. He felt Peter’s heartbeat speed up.

“And you’re the one who called me a goat the other day?”

“Is this an objection?”

“No, counselor – certainly not.” Peter gently stroked him through his soft cotton shorts. It didn’t take much to get him hard.

“It’s agent, not counselor.” Neal grinned. He just _had_ to get that reminder in. Regardless of the problems at the office, nothing and no one was going to take the shine off of his new badge.

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter kept up his slow, almost delicate stroking. Neal squirmed and pressed his hand against Peter’s, trying to increase the friction, the speed. Peter simply stopped; Neal whimpered.

He lifted his hips. “Come on, you bastard.”

“Nope.” So Neal took matters into his own hands. Or tried to. Peter clamped down on his wrist. “I’ll cuff you if you don’t stop.”

The thought of Peter taking away all of his control was so arousing, Neal almost passed out. His breath caught in his throat, his heart raced, his cock got impossibly hard. “Do it.”

Peter froze, as if he wasn’t sure he heard right.

“Cuff me,” Neal repeated.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Back in his probie days, when his supervisory agent handed him his first set of cuffs, Peter had a sudden and completely inappropriate thought. About using those cuffs to restrain Neal and then doing anything he wanted to him. Or maybe nothing at all.

He wasn’t naïve or innocent, he and Neal had experimented with stuff over the years. Peter had spanked Neal a few times (and enjoyed it); Neal had dripped candle wax on him (not so much). But they were the basic-vanilla type of guys. They sucked and fucked, humped and rubbed and enjoyed themselves as often as they could manage. The joy was in the mutuality of their pleasure.

But the idea of cuffing Neal – using the venerated tools of his trade to restrain Neal for his own use – never quite left him. Most days, he’d don his shoulder rig and holster his gun without a second thought. Sometimes, though, his fingers would brush the case holding the handcuffs and he’d get a jolt of desire. It could linger for hours, a sexual buzz that he couldn’t do anything about (which was a pleasure all its own).

For Neal to ask him for this – to command him to cuff him – was his wildest fantasies made real.

Peter got up, gently pushing Neal over to the pillows. “You mean it?”

Neal nodded, slowly. “You want to.” That wasn’t a question.

Peter took a deep breath. “Yeah, oh yeah.” He went into the closet and retrieved his cuffs. “Hands over your head.”

Neal’s eyes glowed as he slowly raised his arms, grasping the carved headboard. He lifted his hips, his arousal obvious from bulge in his shorts and the growing wet stain. Licking his lips, Neal growled, “Do it.”

He had cuffed his share of suspects, but he’d never done it with an erection the size of the Chrysler Building. He straddled Neal’s chest, and his cock jumped as it brushed against him. But his hands were steady, wrapping the cold steel around Neal’s wrists, looping the chain so it hooked over the headboard. Peter sat back on his haunches and met Neal’s eyes.

“You okay, comfortable?”

Neal shifted his wrists, the cuffs were loose enough. “You’ll have to be careful if you don’t want to bruise me.” Then he gave Peter that smile – the one that drove him crazy – “Or do you?”

Peter sucked in his breath, the very thought of hurting Neal _hurt_ him, but the idea of Neal wearing his marks was completely different. It was like the other morning, when he didn’t want to cover the bite mark that Neal had left on him. 

Neal stayed still, arms above his head, chest expanded. He looked like a captive slave, his to do with whatever he wanted. Peter wanted to do a lot.

He started by licking Neal from elbow to armpit. He nuzzled at the silky dark hair, breathing in the scent of skin and the day’s sweat, turned on by Neal’s apparent passivity as much as anything else. He breathed out and Neal twitched. “Love you, you know.” 

“No more than I love you, you idiot.”

Peter laughed and Neal twitched again, he was ticklish. “Stop that.”

He blew across the sensitive skin and Neal tried to move away. But he couldn’t, he was locked in Peter’s handcuffs. And there was much more fun to be had. 

He rose up off his haunches and started feeding Neal his cock; pushing the cloth-covered monstrosity against his mouth. “Come on, suck it.”

Neal tried, working his lips around his dick, but as much as Peter enjoyed watching him struggle, he really wanted to feel that contact against his skin. He dragged his junk out, his balls were resting on the waistband of his shorts. He felt filthy, dominate, that his power was endless but his control was a thread from breaking. The sensation was heady.

Peter let Neal set the pace, he kept his hands loose around his head, to steady him as he worked his mouth and tongue. It was hard _not_ to thrust, to just shove his cock deep into Neal’s willing mouth, to fill him up.

An orgasm started to build, and while Peter would have enjoyed seeing ropes of his come all over Neal’s face, he wanted to come inside his ass even more. And he wasn’t done playing with his captive.

As Peter tried to pull free, Neal increased his suction, holding his lips tight against his cock head. But bound as Neal was, he didn’t have the leverage to cling, and he whimpered as Peter pulled out of his mouth.

Peter sank back on his haunches and contemplated his captive. Neal’s eyes glowed in the dim bedroom light, his face and his body was still. If not for the steady beat of his pulse, visible under his throat, he could be mistaken for a marble statue – perfect in his bound beauty.

“Tits next.” 

He worked over those nipples, playing with them leisurely, just dusting the backs of his fingers over them until they peaked. He pinched them, enjoying how they became hard and swollen. Neal kept quiet and Peter took up the challenge.

“I’m going to make you come, just from this.”

Neal smirked and still said nothing, but he was clearly accepting the dare.

Peter got down to serious work, using his lips and tongue and teeth, and as Neal’s hips began to pump up and down, seeking friction against Peter’s torso, he used one hand to keep them still.

It became a matter of endurance, Peter’s will against Neal’s. He bit down on one luscious, diamond hard nipple, pinching the other one hard. Neal screamed and came, bucking against a very satisfied Peter.

By the time Peter caught his breath, Neal was laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“You really think _you won_?

Peter chuckled, understanding that the joke was on him. Neal came; he was the one left with the aching boner. “I said I wanted to have your ass.”

“And like, I’m not going to enjoy that, either?” 

“Don’t suppose you remembered to stop at the drugstore?” They had used up the small supply that Neal had brought from the other apartment and Peter hadn’t gotten around to replenishing them.

“There’s a fresh bottle of lube and a new box of condoms in the night table drawer.” 

“Such a boy scout.” Peter briefly thought about going in bare and quickly rejected the so-tempting thought. It wasn’t a matter of trust, but safety. Like unloading his gun before locking it away every night. 

As enticing as Neal was with his arms raised and bound to the headboard, Peter recognized the strain the position was causing. He pulled off his shorts, retrieved his keys and unlocked the cuffs, massaging Neal’s wrists and hand and arms, carefully lowering them.

“Lock me up again.”

“What?” Neal was going to make his head explode, if his dick didn’t, first.

“Come on, put them back on.” This time, Neal held his hands out in front of him and Peter didn’t hesitate. Once the cuffs were loosely locked around Neal’s wrists, Peter turned him over and stripped off his come-soaked shorts.

_God, that ass was magnificent._ Peter never, ever failed to appreciate it - but tonight he just stared.

“Anything wrong?” Neal asked as he spread his knees, lifting the object of his awed contemplation a little higher.

“No, no. Absolutely not!” Peter trailed his fingers across Neal’s skin, smooth and perfect, silk velvet over marble, but infinitely warmer. “How did I make it through five months without this?”

“Without me, you mean?” Neal laughed, clearly not insulted at being reduced to a sex object.

Peter just sighed and kept stroking. This - Neal - was _his_. Call him a caveman, a kinky freak, a possessive throwback, but having Neal on his knees in front of him, hands bound and helpless (or as helpless as Neal Caffrey could be) filled him with a satisfaction that went beyond sexual.

“Peter?”

“Just admiring the view.”

Neal wriggled in response and he lightly slapped his ass. “Stay still.” Peter reached into the drawer for the condom and lube, suiting and slicking up before attending to Neal.

“Just - just take me. No prep.”

“Jeez, Neal - are you crazy?”

“Do it, Peter - take me. I’m good.”

Peter pressed his thumb, still coated with lube, against Neal’s hole. Neal was far from loose and he was too hard, too hungry to go slowly once he started. 

“Come on, come on - do it. Fuck me, Peter. Fuck me hard.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

In response, Neal rocked his hips, lifting himself up higher, all but whining. “You can’t hurt me - not like this.”

Peter wasn’t that far gone that he couldn’t understand the subtext in Neal’s statement. It was too fucking true. He pulled his thumb away and started working his cock into Neal’s tight hole. He was careful with his thrusts, until Neal pushed back, forcing his cock in. Peter gasped at the hot tightness, the unexpected pressure. He tried to go slow, but it was impossible. His hips started to piston, his hand were vices as they gripped Neal’s hips. He almost didn’t care about anything but his own pleasure, and as the orgasm built, Peter held Neal and leaned over him, like a stallion covering a mare. In unintentional mimicry of Neal from the other night, Peter bit down on the apple of his shoulder as he came.

Even after a dozen years of monogamy, sex was always good. But sometimes, something happened to take them out of the familiar. It wasn’t just the big events - like their reunion after Neal’s graduation, or even the night they left Queens and desperately fucked in the entryway - that did it. It happened on ordinary nights, too - some new desire that renewed their attraction. It was more than hunger, it was their eagerness to find new avenues for pleasure.

It took more than a few minutes for Peter to come back to himself. He eased out of Neal’s body, discarded the spent condom and turned Neal over. He was smiling and glassy-eyed. 

“We’ll have to do that again some time.” The little shit held up his wrists, still in handcuffs. Peter unlocked them and examined the skin. There was a little redness, but no bruising so far. The bite on his shoulder was another story. No broken skin, but the mark was going to linger for days.

“Wanna get cleaned up?”

“Nah, tomorrow’s soon enough.” 

Peter got back into bed, and pulled the covers over both of them. Neal settled himself into his favorite position, using Peter as his pillow. He fell asleep quickly, unaware that Peter was watching him until he, too, drifted off.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

This time it was Neal who was woken by the scent of freshly brewed coffee. There was a mug on the night table, and next to it, a note folded in the shape of an origami crane. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, winced at his own stink and reached for the cup.

It was still warm enough that it couldn’t have been too long since Peter left the coffee. He sipped - it was good, really good. Awake enough now, he picked up the note and grinned. Years ago, when he first became interested in all things Japanese, Neal taught himself how to make origami animals. Peter was game for learning too, but the only shape he could ever master was the crane.

Neal carefully unfolded the note:

_Neal –_

_You were so sound asleep; I don’t think a herd of elephants could have woken you._

_I’m meeting Dad at the place on Ditmars - he’s bringing Charlie and Joe and the truck. We’re going to pack up and get the hell out of there. Don’t even think about coming back to help. We’ll do the heavy lifting and leave it up to you to negotiate a way out of the rest of the lease, ok?_

_Mom will be here, too - supervising. Because men can’t pack, apparently._

_And just so you know, we’re tossing almost all of the furniture - it doesn’t go in **our** fancy new digs. Everything except the chair from the bedroom. Too many good memories there. _

_I’ve checked with Alvin and for fifty bucks, he’ll have the freight elevator available for us (even though we’re not supposed to use it on Saturdays). I’ll call you when we’re done and ready to head back into Manhattan. I’ve promised the guys pizza - so can you arrange that, too?_

_Don’t worry - I’ll look out for Meeker. I’ve left my gun at home (so I can’t shoot him even if I wanted to), and between Dad and Joe and Chuck and Mom, there’s nothing to worry about._

_Pity we’re not living stereotypes, because I’m thinking we really could use a decorator about now._

_Love you,_

_Peter_

Neal refolded the paper back into the crane and set it down. He wondered if Peter realized just what he had written – “I’ve left my gun _at home_.”

What a lucky man he was.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Monday morning, Peter sipped his coffee and swallowed the Tylenol he copped off of one of the admins, hoping it would help with the muscle aches. He rolled his neck and winced at the popping sound. Hell, he just past thirty but right now he felt like forty-five. _Ancient_.

Moving out of the place on Ditmars took all day on Saturday. Even with most of the furniture going into the trash, there was still too much stuff. There were piles of books that had to be packed and carried down the three flights of stairs. Maybe this was really why he never wanted to move.

He supposed he could have blamed Neal, but half the books were his.

Neal, of course, had cringed when he saw how his suits were packed: in heavy-duty garbage bags, but he didn’t say anything. As he hung them up, Neal just fussed over them a little, like they were children home from a grand adventure.

There was plenty of pizza and wine and beer, and the best part of the evening was seeing his mother get tipsy.

They were both supposed to have spent Sunday unpacking, except that Neal wanted to finish the translations for him and get started on reviewing the Sullivan S&L fraud. So Peter unpacked carton after carton of books. It was a good thing this place had a dedicated library, he figured. Truthfully, it wasn’t as bad as packing. He had the radio on, thankfully the Yankees were winning. Neal was at the big desk in the center of the room, working. All in all, it was not a bad place to be. Every once and a while, he’d stop to look at Neal as he was reading over a file, double checking something, or staring out into space before rushing to jot something down. The pattern was as familiar as the back of his hand. He had been watching Neal concentrate for more than half his lifetime. 

As he watched Neal, he wanted to tell him – _Stop, don’t work so hard, you don’t need to impress anyone._ But he knew that Neal wasn’t trying to score points, he was being the man he was – smart, dedicated, thorough, diligent. These were the qualities that made him such an effective lawyer, and put him at the top of his class at Quantico.

Neal had finally caught him looking. “Sorry – I’m leaving everything to you.” He got up to help, but Peter waved him off. 

“Nah, I’ve got this. Besides, you’re doing work for me and making me look good for the bosses.”

“And that’s what really counts, right?” Neal sat on the edge of the desk, a bit of a challenge on his lips.

“Hmm, yeah.”

“Well, I’ve finished with the translations…”

“Find anything good?”

Neal gave him a look full of challenge. “You’ll just have to wait ‘til Monday. Besides, I’ve got other work to do.”

Peter refused to rise to the bait. “Okay, be like that.”

“I think I will. Anyway, I need a break.” Neal opened one the remaining boxes and started shelving books. “Good thing this place has a dedicated library.” 

Peter grinned at the congruence of their thoughts. “Someone has a lot of books.”

Neal looked at the volumes in his hand. “ _Generally Accepted Accounting Principles Explained – Volumes 1 and 2, 1993 Edition._ ” He shelved them and pulled out two more books. “And the 1994 edition, too. Yes, Peter – someone certainly has a lot of books.”

“Says the man who owns every gallery companion and exhibit catalog that the Metropolitan Museum of Art has produced in the last fifteen years.”

“Huh.” 

Between the two of them, they finished unpacking the books right after the Yankees lost the game when the Indians scored on a walk-off home run. Disgusted with his beloved ball team, Peter turned the conversation to dinner. “We’ve got pizza left over from last night.”

“How about trying that sushi place on the corner of 82nd and Broadway?”

Peter tried not to make a face. “What about Thai? There has to be a Thai place in the neighborhood.”

“I’m never going to get you to eat sushi, am I?” 

“No, but that doesn’t mean you should stop trying.” 

They ordered in Thai, with the assistance of the ever-helpful Alvin. Neal worked for a few more hours, Peter watched the Mets game (they won, to his disgust), and they made an early night of it.

True to his word, Neal didn’t give him any of the remaining Dihatsu translations until this morning. He sat next to Peter’s desk, pointing out additional patterns that supported the Government’s contention that the trading company was committing securities violations. Peter grilled him, challenging everything. It was an interesting exercise, trying to make Neal sweat. Difficult by not impossible. He didn’t tear into Neal; rather, he was testing the information and the methodology. Peter was only doing everything that an experience agent would do. 

The cross-examination lasted for nearly two hours and at some point, the whole office started to watch them, even Hughes. 

Finally, they were done. “Good work, Agent Caffrey, and thank you.”

Neal gave him a tight smile and a nod before going back to his desk.

The exercise served its real purpose; however: to recalibrate Neal’s status in the office. He was a probie. Talented, smarter than most, but still a probationary agent. 

Peter caught Hughes’ eye and he thought he saw approval there. At least he hoped it was.

And for all that effort, there were external forces at work that rekindled the overall atmosphere of resentment. And naturally, Neal couldn’t help but be Neal. 

Shortly before the morning meeting, two unfamiliar agents came into the office. Peter didn’t recognize either, but apparently Neal knew at least one of them. He smiled as they walked by. The older agent, who looked to be the same vintage as Agent Hughes, stopped.

“Ah, Agent Caffrey. Settling in at White Collar?”

Peter watched – hell, everyone watched – as Neal stood up and shook the man’s hand.

“Yes, and thank you for asking, Director Bancroft.”

“You know, it’s not too late to change your mind and come to work for me in Anti-Crime.”

Neal politely declined. “I’m enjoying White Collar too much.”

“Well, if you get bored, let me know – I’ll make room for you on my team.” Bancroft gave Neal a genial clap on the shoulder before heading up to Hughes’ office.

_Fuck_. Neal was conversing with an Assistant Director of the FBI – one who had tried to recruit him. If anyone had any doubts that the brass thought that Neal was hot shit, they were certainly erased by now.

The staff headed into the conference room and David Kyle, one of the senior agents, ran the meeting. Kyle liked to go alphabetically, so Peter presented his cases first. He was surprised, though, that he tagged Neal next.

“Agent Hughes requested a review of the Sullivan S&L case, Agent Caffrey. He said that he wanted it last week, yet we haven’t heard anything from you. Why is that?” Kyle was trying to put Neal on the spot, show him up. Peter thought that it would take a much better man than Kyle to make that happen, and he was right.

“Agent Hughes asked me to focus on completing the translations for Agent Burke, since the Dihatsu case has a Statute of Limitations deadline. Those were finished this weekend, and Agent Burke reviewed them with me this morning. I started my review …”

“Which you haven’t completed. Stop wasting our time.” Kyle was unnecessarily sharp with Neal, but before he could move onto the next agent, Neal continued.

“Sir, what I was about to say was –” Neal’s tone was borderline disrespectful, but he dialed it back. Peter hoped they weren’t going to get a repeat of what happened with Franklin last week. “That I recognized the names of several of the players in the case. Coincidentally, they were co-defendants in one of the cases I second-chaired for at Drake Morrissey.”

“Which means you’re conflicted out, Caffrey – return the file as soon as the meeting’s done.” Kyle was smug.

“Actually, sir, I’m not. You must have misheard me – I said they were _co-_ defendants. They were not my clients, nor clients of my firm. They were tried and convicted, my clients were exonerated.” 

“What’s your point, Caffrey?”

“My point is that I’ve reached out to the Assistant US Attorney’s office which tried the case; I went to law school with Melissa Grant, who was second chair at the trial. She’s sending over the case files. I figured …”

“You figured what, Probie? You’re overreaching in a big way. You were asked to provide a summary of a cold case, you weren’t told to run with it.”

Peter watched Neal; he knew that expression all too well. He wasn’t mad, he was determined and he wasn’t going to back down. A year from now, that determination would stand in in good stead, but now – the first day of his second week – this wasn’t a good thing.

“Tell me, Agent – ” No one had seen Director Bancroft join the meeting. 

“Kyle – David Kyle, sir.”

“Agent Kyle – is it the policy of this office to disregard evidence and assistance because it comes from a probationary agent?”

Kyle flushed. “Director, sir – Mr. Caffrey …”

“Agent Caffrey, you mean.”

The flush deepened. “Agent Caffrey joined this office five days ago, he graduated from Quantico the week before that. The ink’s not dry on his diploma.”

Bancroft didn’t back down. “So, Agent Kyle, you’d simply ignore Agent Caffrey’s initiative because it doesn’t meet your personal experience criteria? You’d pass on the opportunity to break open a cold case because the agent who brings it to you isn’t part of your inner circle? That’s really quite a spectacular indictment of this entire office.”

Hughes, who’d been standing behind Director Bancroft, cleared his throat. “Agent Kyle is a recent transfer – his attitude does not reflect the policy of this office. Please continue, Agent Caffrey.”

This time it was Neal who flushed. But he gathered himself together and continued. “Sir, the case that I was on was similar to the Sullivan Savings and Loan matter; another internal bank fraud. Someone used the bank to launder dirty money. My firm had represented the bank’s principals; the co-defendants were the auditing firm, Heiker & Benden. They are listed in the Sullivan indictment as the bank’s auditors, too.”

Hughes asked, “And you think that they could have information about the fraud that brought down Sullivan?”

“Yeah – but that wasn’t where I was going. If Sullivan used the same auditors then maybe some of the other players are the same. Given the breadth of the failure at Sullivan and the number of people involved, I thought that we could set up a relationship database – see how the players are connected and where the connections overlap with other activities.”

Neal’s enthusiasm was not infectious, but it was impressive. 

Finally, Hughes raised a hand and Neal stopped. “We’re not geeks here – and we don’t have the deep pockets that a litigation firm has to build this database.”

“But that’s the beauty of this – it only sounds difficult and expensive. We are the U.S. Government, we have access to the software already – it’s a variation of the program that runs ViCAP. Just need a blank module and someone to enter the data.” 

Hughes nodded. “Good work, Caffrey. I’ll need a budget and manpower analysis before this can go forward. Burke, you’ll oversee that?”

Peter blinked and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.” But he wasn’t quite sure what he just agreed to.

The rest of the meeting was anticlimactic. As the agents went back to their desks, it was clear that whatever problems that Neal’s special treatment had caused last week, they just became that much greater.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter knew that Neal had made a serious tactical error with Kyle. He should have just kept his mouth shut, taken his lumps and given Hughes the report and his recommendations later in the week. But no, he had to open his mouth and get into a pissing contest with the other agent – a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal.

Bancroft’s intervention made the situation even worse. 

He couldn’t see any way that Neal would be able to undo what just happened; he’d have to live with the consequences.

But the day wasn’t without its bright side. Hughes assigned him to oversee Neal’s case and they’d be able to legitimately spend time together at work. That just might make the rest of the problems worth it.

A little before one, Peter went over to Neal’s desk. “Come on, let’s get some lunch. Since I’ve got to help you out, you’re buying.”

They ended up at one of his favorite Chinese restaurants. The place was a hole in the wall off of the Bowery. Peter ordered Mu Shu Pork, Neal got Happy Family and they both declined the soup. He smiled as Neal, ever so meticulous with his clothes, tucked his tie into his shirt. He scarfed a few of the deliciously greasy noodles and said his peace. Finally. “You’re sunk. You know that.”

“Yeah. I could have handled Kyle better. All your good work this morning, undone.” Neal toyed with the chopsticks, drumming them on the table.

“You knew what I was doing?”

“Of course. I know you. You want to make things right. That’s the essence of Peter Burke.” Peter flushed with pleased embarrassment. “You’ve always been like that.”

“Once you started talking with Director Bancroft, it was over. An AD stops at your desk and tries to recruit you, and you’ve been here just a week? That was the kiss of death – what happened in the meeting was just about irrelevant.”

“I could take Bancroft up on his offer and make all of these problems go away.”

“You don’t run from your problems, Neal.”

“So, I’m destined to be the office pariah?”

“Looks that way.”

Neal looked down and then at Peter, meeting his eyes. “As long as I’ve got you, then it doesn’t matter.”

Peter gave a little huff of laughter. “Yeah, but it’s not going to be easy for you.”

Neal’s reply was a little too facile. “And since when did I ever take the easy road?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal was working on the Sullivan files, putting together his proposal for the database he had pitched – it was a lot harder than he expected – when the sound of a tapping foot interrupted him.

“I have to say, Caffrey, your level of concentration is impressive. I’ve been standing here for five minutes and you haven’t looked up once.” Agent Grainger was standing next to his desk, holding a well-worn case file. She had a slightly annoyed expression on her face.

Forgetting for the moment about an earlier encounter with her outside of the men’s room, Neal smiled and asked what he could do for her.

“You speak Italian?”

_Si_.

“And German?”

_Ja_.

“Feel like getting out of the office and giving me a hand?”

“Sure – what’s the case?”

“Come on, I’ll tell you on the way.”

Neal didn’t look over at Peter; he just shrugged into his jacket and followed Grainger out of the office. She didn’t say anything until they were on the street, where she handed him the file. He read the summary page.

“Insurance claims by Holocaust survivors?”

“Do you know anything about this?”

“Just that one of my professors at law school has been working on a class action lawsuit by survivors against private companies who used slave labor in the concentration camps.”

“Ah, yes – the vaunted Harvard Law Professor, Arthur Miller.” She spoke the name in the same lofty tones that the famous lecturer used.

Neal chuckled. “Yeah, him.”

“This isn’t the same thing. As far back as the Fifties, Holocaust survivors were promised that the policies they had purchased would be honored, but the companies have been stonewalling for decades.”

“Is this a criminal matter?” Neal wondered why the FBI was involved.

“There a small budget allocated for investigation, and I’ve been working on it for a while. It’s very low priority.” The last sentence was said with such bitterness that Neal had to wonder.

“Why do you need me?”

“I’ve been trying to get a few answers from the management at Generali, but I’m getting nowhere. The representatives they’ve sent either don’t speak English, or spend most of the time conversing in Italian or German.”

“Ah.”

“It’s taken me months to get a follow up interview, and I figured you could sit there, keep your mouth shut and look pretty.”

“And tell you what they’ve said. Sneaky.” Neal had to admire Grainger’s ingenuity.

It worked exceedingly well. Signore Carvallo, the Director General, and Signore Corunna, who was introduced as a facilitator for the meeting, spent most of the time pretending they didn’t speak English, the rest of the time making lewd comments about Agent Grainger’s breasts. Neal worked hard to keep a blank expression on his face, even when the two old men speculated about Amy’s sexual proclivities. 

Lured into carelessness, they did drop one very useful tidbit. There were ledgers recording life insurance and savings plan policies sold to Jewish families in Germany in the early years of the Third Reich. The ledgers were kept in a vault in New York and probably should be destroyed at the earliest opportunity.

They were out of the building and on the street before Neal said anything. “You’ve got to get a search warrant. They’ve got records...” He explained what the men revealed.

Grainger looked at him and shook her head in amused exasperation. “What is it with you, Caffrey? Is it going to be like this for your whole career? You touch a case file and it’s magically solved? Are you a goddamned superhero of justice or something?”

“It was your idea to bring me along. I was just being useful.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and gave her a little self-deprecating shrug.

“That’s right – you’re a tool in my belt, and I’m going to use you. Oh, boy – am I going to use you.”

Neal kept smiling, but he was pissed off. Grainger went from focused agent to lascivious man-eater in the blink of an eye. And then back again.

“Okay - come on, let’s get back and see about that warrant. You’re going to have to do the talking with the AUSA's office. I didn’t understand a word they said.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

By the end of the week, Neal was exhausted. Of course, Grainger didn’t keep it to herself how golden boy solved her case, calling him a "goddamned lucky rabbit’s foot." It didn’t help that she also kept suggesting that other agents try him out, as if he were a sexual convenience. He was actually grateful that no one seemed interested in doing that.

Five o’clock, Friday and all Neal could think about was getting home, having a quiet meal and not having to think about anything more strenuous than arguing with Peter about Thai or Chinese. He straightened out his desk, put on his jacket and was about to leave when Grainger blocked his path.

"We're going out for happy hour. You're coming, right?" 

“Actually …” Neal looked around. Peter was no help, and the scant handful of other waiting agents wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

Except for Jack Franklin, who’d been a few degrees less chilly to Neal than his teammates this week. “Ah, come on, kid – it’ll be fun.”

Neal figured it couldn’t really hurt, and getting to know his co-workers outside of the stress of the office might actually help. He grinned and asked, “And is it tradition for probies to buy the first round?”

Jack chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder. “If it wasn’t before, it is now.”

Peter; however, didn’t seem too happy about this development. As they headed for the elevators, he gave Neal a look – _Just don’t oversell it._

The evening went well, at least at the start. Neal bought the first round, expecting to get stuck with orders for rare scotch or expensive cognac, but this wasn’t the cut-throat world of a white shoe law firm. Peter, Jack and the three other male agents were beer drinkers; Grainger preferred vodka martinis and even had the courtesy to ask him if he minded that she ordered it made with Stoli. 

They settled in at a large round table and Neal spent much of the early evening nursing a mediocre glass of white wine and watching his co-workers interact. They didn’t include him in the conversation, but they weren’t excluding him either. Maybe this was the way it needed to be. It might have been easier if some of the other probies had been there, but given how much they despised him, maybe not.

By seven-thirty, Neal was on a second glass of wine, but Grainger was on her fourth martini and losing control fast. She had commandeered the seat next to him and was making drunken passes at him; her hands were on his thigh, his chest, his knee. He was polite as he evaded her. The last thing he wanted to do was make a scene.

Unfortunately, that was exactly what happened.

Neal had excused himself and headed for the men’s room; Grainger was waiting for him when he came out. She was a messy drunk and tried to press Neal against the wall. She stank of vermouth and cigarettes.

“Come on, baby – you know you want it.”

He tried to avoid her, but she was like an octopus, clinging to him. “Amy – Agent Grainger, this isn’t a good idea.” He ducked and dodged and almost made it back to the table when she grabbed his arm. 

“Neal, sweetie …” 

“Amy – please.” He couldn’t shake her off.

There, in front of a table full of coworkers, she tried to climb him. Her skirt was hiked up, displaying a black lace garter belt and nothing else. “I’ve got an itch to scratch, and you’re just the man to do it.”

The room went silent, or maybe it was just Neal’s temper. He pushed her away and watched as she stumbled back. He never thought of himself as someone with a particularly vicious tongue, but he'd had enough. “You’ve got an itch? Well, there are remedies for that in the feminine hygiene aisle at the drugstore. I suggest you get yourself some.”

Even in the dim light of the bar, Neal could see an angry red flush stain her cheeks. As he walked out, he could hear snickers from the men at the table, from other patrons who overheard what he said.

Neal cursed himself, cursed his temper. What a goddamned mess he’d made of his dreams.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter stayed behind, he wanted to gauge the fallout. It was just him, Jack Sullivan, Peter Channing and Mark Powell. Amy had left right after Neal; he watched her get into a cab and head downtown.

Jack looked around the table and grinned. “You know, guys – we’ve just got to do it.”

“What?” Peter had no idea where Jack was going.

Channing snorted into his beer. “Get Grainger a carton of that stuff – leave it on her desk.”

“Better yet, a bottle a day. Gift-wrapped.” Powell giggled.

“Guys – come on. Amy was out of line, but this is only going to make it worse.” 

“She has it coming,” Sullivan muttered.

Peter disagreed. “No one deserves to be humiliated. It was bad judgment – ”

Channing, who was the soberest of the three other agents, shook his head. “And if she was a guy and Caffrey a skirt? She’d be out on her ass for sexual harassment.”

“Yeah – you’d know all about that,” Powell snickered. “Didn’t you have to go to ‘sensitivity training’ after that thing with that chick from Forensic Accounting?”

“Yup. Gotta watch what I say these days. Don’t want another black mark in my jacket. They’ll dump me into Evidence or Internal Bank Fraud.”

Peter made one last stand. “All the more reason to just forget about this.”

“You’re a stick in the mud, Burke. But you may be right.” Jack, ever the ringleader, quieted Channing and Powell’s disappointed groans. “We don’t leave the bottles on her desk, okay?”

“We stick ‘em in her purse!” Powell finished the thought with triumph. “Here’s to Neal Fucking Caffrey, who is as entertaining as he is …” The agent searched for an appropriate simile.

“Ridiculous?” Channing supplied.

“Yeah, yeah. Ridiculous.”

Peter so desperately wanted to defend Neal to his colleagues. “He does good work; he’s smart, he’s observant. Why does that make him ridiculous?”

Jack, ever a fan of baseball metaphors, replied, “Probies don’t get to hit for the cycle. Who ever heard of one finding a smoking gun on his first day on the job, bringing a cold case back to life in his first week, and solving an international conspiracy by the end of his second?”

“That’s not ridiculous – that’s fucking brilliant.” Peter dropped a twenty on the table. “I expect change. My money’s not contributing to any stupid prank, okay?”

The men waved him off and Peter left, knowing that as bad as he first thought Monday morning was going to be between Neal and Grainger, it was going to be ten times worse.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was raining by the time Peter made it home, a nasty, pelting drizzle that was inescapable. The subway was only three blocks from the apartment, but the rain had soaked through his hair, dripped down the back of his collar, seeped into his shoes. A fitting end to a lousy day.

The apartment was dark and quiet. Too dark, too quiet, and Peter worried.

He went up to the bedroom, and let out a sigh of relief. Neal was there, standing at the window, looking out into the darkness.

“You okay?” Such a banal question.

Neal didn’t answer. Even in the darkness, Peter could see the tension in his silhouette. He toed off his shoes and changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. He locked away his gun and badge and towel-dried his hair before joining Neal at the window. 

“All I ever wanted to be was a cop. You know that. I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps, to protect and to serve.”

“I know.”

“But you told me I could do better, I could be something more. I had _potential_.”

“You do – you are the smartest man I know. You’re leagues beyond everyone else.”

Neal wasn’t vain, but he wasn’t the type for false modesty, either. “I’ve never had a problem with that. It never mattered. Do you know why?”

He didn’t. Even when they were kids, even before they were friends, Peter had always admired Neal’s tremendous self-possession. Genius always stood apart, but Neal refused to make it an exile. “Tell me.”

Neal turned to him, there was such terrible grief there. “I’ve had you at my back. I could be strong, I could ignore the whispers and the snide remarks because you were always there, always my friend.”

He wrapped his arms around Neal. “We are much more than friends – you are everything to me.”

“Within these walls, yes. We’re all but strangers to the world now. No one can know what we are to each other – we’re not even friends. What an arrogant ass I was – so worried that people would think I was riding on your coattails. That I couldn’t stand on my own.”

“Hey, hey – it’s okay. We’ll make it through. Remember, _‘I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach’._ ”

Neal gave a watery laugh, not so much amusement but relief. “Peter…”

“Yeah.” He rested his cheek on Neal’s head, willing peace into him. “I’m always here. I’ll always be here for you. I love you. Don’t ever doubt that.”

__

FIN


End file.
